


Construction of Next Year

by AEN



Category: CoNY, Construction of Next Year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6442303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AEN/pseuds/AEN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world of trial and error, Balor Redding succumbs to an unimaginable fate of glory and gold. Actions within his path spark a chain of reactions, and once thought simplicity is distorted into a tangle of pathways between several different masses all across the globe. When they come together, what will become of their crumbling hierarchy, and those who inhibit it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm A.E.N., and I've decided to post my original story here, in hopes that I'll receive some sort of feedback and have the motivation to continue writing chapters. Construction Of Next Year belongs to no fandom. This is a completely original work, that I've put my own effort and dedication into. I hope you'll enjoy it! I'll try to add a new chapter every week.

# Construction of Next Year

### Prologue

I saw _Death_ today  
Travel through my veins  
He slipped across my soul  
And stole my life away.  
With _Death,_  
There was no pain  
No sorrow did I feel  
Only great relief  
From old and weary ills.


	2. The Trick To Falling

# Construction of Next Year

### 1\. The Trick To Falling

###  That night, the Lord Redding was reading when _Death_ approached. Up until this time, he had resided in a large, suffering castle, perched on the rocky shore of a gloomy atlantic. Most of his followers were still in a state of despair over the loss of his daughter, who passed away only the winter prior after a brief rebellion within the stone keep. With bitterly cold, hardly noticeable seasons that had come and gone, the Lord wished only for his passing. He was never frightened by the possibility, but he was unsure his sons were prepared to have his responsibilities. He found these days that he was consistently strung between a state of restlessness and utter exhaustion, so when his bedchamber was disturbed with the knocking of a visitor, his impulse was to snap at them, and to tell them to leave. He didn’t, of course, and after a moment of hesitation, the door was pushed open. In the arched entryway stood a figure lacking in visible strength, yet donned a glittering, slim blade at his side. Clad in a coal surcoat emblazoned with the family's sapphire coat of arms, his dark locks curled around his pale ears. “Your lordship,” began the figure, stepping forward into the more direct dull light, and the Lord listened to his son’s daily report. He droned on about one thing or another, cerulean, kind eyes flickering down to a parchment list occasionally; he listed things such as how the knightsmen were holding up in the battlements, or how other lands nearby were faring. The Lord gave a short sigh when it was over. “Thank you, Balor. You may go about your business now.” The young man gave a soft, quick nod and left his father to his own devices, joining his two brothers outside. Balor himself wasn’t much of a suitable heir, and he pondered it over as he stepped into the colder hallway of the citadel. Long ago, he had accepted that one of his stronger siblings would inherit the throne, but he hadn’t quite ever minded it. Balor was drawn from his thoughts when his brother nudged him. Giving a patient smile, he turned to face the perpetrator. “You’re always bobbing in and out of thought,” the man said while Balor was folding away his papers. He was noticeably taller and let his frame lean against a broadsword, balancing the sharpened tip between a crevice in the fine stonework of the floor. In addition to the already menacing appearance of his brother, he also donned a scowl. That scowl comes from having lost a few challenges in the courtyard, Balor knew. “It’s been chaotic lately, Kaelan, so I’d imagine you have work to do other than questioning me,” was the retort, and Balor left with that statement to continue with his own strenuous work, not wishing to further agitate the man with his logic. Hours passed, twilight had fallen upon the castle walls, and the Lord gazed down at a tale of a grief-stricken knight on some sort of conquest for redemption. He had been reading it for some time and was preparing to set it aside in favor of sleep when he was stopped in place by an unmistakable presence. Thoughts ran through his mind as he acknowledged what he was about to face, and his rationality was spiraling out of control, yet he was not afraid. He was old, and decades of ruling over his sea-bound kingdom had taken a toll that made him visibly worse for wear. He lowered his book and, without turning to face the entity, spoke. “Is it time?” were the only soft words that escaped him. He felt that if he were to speak any louder, his soul would be too quick to pry itself from the worn vessel it inhabited. “This is a conversation of the past,” was _Death’s_ response, and its voice sounded chillingly mangled. The Lord refused to look. “I have responsibilities here,” he started, weary viridian eyes dropping to the tattered, unfinished tome, “even if I wish to go with you, I still have not chosen an heir.” _Death’s_ hands went to the Lord’s shoulders, and it tilted its head to the side, emitting a grating noise of bone on bone. The Lord, giving a shudder at the sound, turned to view his fate. Somewhere, resting against the crenelated wall of the citadel, Balor gazed out at the kingdom’s surrounding ramparts, feeling a little odd. It wasn’t long before his brothers joined him. “You’re acting strangely,” one of them said after a long silence between the ensemble. “Which one of us, Jode?” Kaelan joked, although any humor seemed to be satirical after such a long day. “You know,” he said. “Balor.” There was a pause as the trio stared out into the night, cold wind coming in from the sea tousling their hair and coats. Eventually, Balor gave a sigh. “I don’t know,” he said, and there seemed to be some sort of dry gloominess to it. “I just feel like things are about to change.” With that, he left his companions, footsteps and the wail of the oaken door barely audible in the sweeping, somber winds. The following morning, Balor regretted his actions. When he awoke to the clanging of the kingdom’s belfry, he gave a shudder at the chill of the room, but his frigidness did not compare to the fright that flowed in waves down his frame. The last time that bell had rung was followed shortly by his sister’s death. He lifted himself from his cot, forced on his boots, and swept through the door out into the barely risen sun’s rays. The dismal clouds above blocked even those from the earth, and it seemed as if it were still night. It felt as if it were night, too. Making his way past the bailey and out into the courtyard, Balor stopped at the citadel’s passage, stone archways curving high over his head. Usually, he would pause to admire the workmanship of them, but as soon as he had caught his breath, he hastened his pace down the hallway. He wound through the kingdom’s framework, through corridors and themed rooms until he found himself in the main stronghold. It was a wide, dignified chamber, although the gold-encrusted throne looked a little duller than usual. His brothers were standing by one of the pillars, and he approached through the surge of the crowd, his heart pounding as he realized the bell had ceased long ago. Kaelan refused to face him, seemingly out of dignity, although Balor’s mind was reeling far too much for him to draw together the situation. Jode looked at him, almond eyes betraying something of anguish, and Balor knew all at once that his statement from the previous night had voiced truth. Weeks passed, and Balor grew stronger. When Jode said that, Kaelan had laughed. “Grown stronger? Perhaps in terms of gallantry, but certainly not in brawn.” Balor rolled his eyes at that, but he had known that his brothers were only teasing him. He had grown emotionally stronger. While still benevolent and kindhearted, he was less prone to vulnerability. He was braver, and he felt as if he were worth something. The death of his father that stark night had set something alight inside of him, and he stepped up to the challenge of aristocracy when the time came. Now, Balor stood in the stronghold, still dressed in his modest wear, though with a glint of hope in his eyes, a chalice in his hand. One would have thought his irises were golden with ambition, and there would certainly be no doubt that it reflected his soul. In these moments, with the kingsmen and his newly faithful followers in an uproar of celebration around the throne, he thought of his sister. Her hair, spun of gold, as if molten and forged from a kiln into glittering ribbons that were smoothed together until they formed shining, braided tresses. He thought of her lash-fringed eyes, those of a Botticelli angel born from the sea. More importantly, he thought of her compassion and softness towards both the courteous and the malicious. If her hair was not molded from gold, her heart was without a doubt. He knew he would never have had the strength to move forward and rule without the encouragement she had provided him with before her death. He decided that he would name something in honor to her, though he hadn’t decided what yet. Balor was drawn from his thoughts when he saw a flash of some familiar fabric. His eyes scanned the crowd until he finally saw his brothers. The two of them were waving, grinning, and… Balor stopped. They did not seem delighted anymore. Balor gave a sympathetic smile. He almost laughed. He thought they were too proud of him to have jubilant expressions, or that he had spilt wine on his cloak. He looked down, and saw red. He was disappointed in himself for a moment; it was his favorite attire, and he had ruined the family’s embroidered crest. When he felt his face flush and his mind reel, black creeping in at the edges of his vision, he knew it was not wine. The sensation of getting hotter and hotter overcame him, and he felt faint. He dropped to his knees, and then slumped to his side. Perhaps there was a commotion, but his hearing was fading in and out. Crimson pooled, seeping between the cracks of the masonry. Balor felt sad, sad that the blood would stain such lovely flooring. His conscience was beyond logic now, and those wistful eyes of his rolled to the figure looming above him. He couldn’t comprehend the face of the man, but he could see who was hovering directly behind. He understood now. _Death_ had cast down upon the cold stone floor Balor, an unfortunate aristocrat of dark curls and genuine clemency, of fair and soft face. His wavy, ebony hair was loose and tangled. His torso was sticky with blood from the laceration. The unidentified figure leaned in a bit closer, and Death stayed behind. Balor stared up, perhaps somewhere very distant past him, as he spoke. “All hail the king,” the man muttered, then the steel was at Balor’s throat, and the bite of it was scarlet and cold.


End file.
